


Analogies

by fraisemilk



Category: Gintama
Genre: F/F, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 06:39:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5037751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraisemilk/pseuds/fraisemilk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She can see the specter in you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Analogies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emily_420](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emily_420/gifts).



You glide into the night (water-black, lascivious, the acrid smell of dumpsters). The arrow, the bird, the wind itself – they all merge into this single instant (black water drop, sliding in-between the shuddering light of the streetlamps), when you jump from one roof to another (ridges to ridges, edges on edges, swimming in the dangerous heights); people do not see your shadow leaping up toward the sky. You are already gone when they look up.

Her eyes can easily follow the swift movements of your undistinguishable figure.

They are, all of them, so unaware of you. You could slit their throats open, and look down calmly at their quivering corpses as the gurgling blood comes out. You could drown them in eternal sleep. You could kiss them goodbye, and paint their lips black with cherry poison;

At dawn, you are back in your small apartment, and go to sleep. You wake up precisely four hours later; you take a bath, you brush your teeth. You hide the small cuts you got during the night with thin bleached bandages. Your skin must always be soft; you massage your sore shoulders; the skin of your knees glistens under the heavy smell of green soap;

On Sunday mornings, on unsuspectedly free days, lazy you sleeps for eight hours, enveloped in warmth. Cat-like, sunshine. You do not belong to the night, then – on these mornings, you belong to the curve of a smile (water-blue, timid, kisses on your thighs), and to the hand that slides through your hair, and to the gasps, and to the tiniest despair.

Plunged into darkness, behind walls and in-between ceilings, you do not feel like yourself. You feel entirely like a shadow, the black water drop sliding down the chin of dying children. You are the instrument: music, arrow, shadow. You are the observer, yet your eyes are not your eyes; you watch for someone who is not there; you watch for the Obscurities that must stay concealed in the Sunlight. In the dark, there is no place for unsteady heartbeats, no space for sighs and shy kisses. In the dark, there must be no trace left of you, Sarutobi Ayame.

She could easily narrate these small portions of your life – they do also belong to a very intimate part of her memory, after all. She never felt too big, only not small enough – to hide under the dark veils, behind the clouds and the Roof, she once had to dye herself entirely in sad sad gloom. The dim life of a silent killer is nothing more than a never-ending dusk. She can see the specter in you.

Was it idle talk? When you looked up at her, and said: “I’m no lover of stupid puns-analogies, but you’re very much like the moon.” (Unsurprisingly, she had answered with a question of her own – what the fuck is that supposed to mean?).

You had no answer then – your words the mere expression of what you felt. You had seen her face and the scar and the blue eyes and the light emanating from her – you had smelt the blood and the sweat, the chocolate. You had felt the moon right then and there, in that instant, incarnate, the pause in the darkness, the light that appears in the night, so bright, so high, so round, so perfect.

(When you wake up, there is a small moment in which you are not fully aware of yourself; unguarded. Fluttering; shivering, in the pit of your stomach. You blink and look at the sky, through the dirty panes of the window. The pink-blushing mess of your hair, light of the morning, lavender hue, lavender ray. Sunshine, Sunshine. You do not belong to the night, then.)

(When she wakes up, there is a small moment in which she does not seem fully aware of herself; unguarded. She shivers under the yellow hue of the sunlight. You blink and look at her for a long time – sunshine, sunshine. You do not belong to the night, then. You belong to the soft-heartened sighs and morning kisses – you belong to the woman that slowly awakens, and to the scars and to the rolls of muscles in her shoulders – ethereal, spectral – yet so real, when she looks back at you, smiles when you brush your fingers through her hair, and blushes slightly when you compare her to the moon.)

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday Emily! 
> 
> Kudos and comments are lovely


End file.
